


Return

by Velvetina_Belle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetina_Belle/pseuds/Velvetina_Belle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How would their first meeting go after The Final Problem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Return  
> Pairing: Pre-Slash, Sherlock/John  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Status: Complete fictlet.  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock in any from.  
> Summary: How would their first meeting go?  
> Warnings: Swearing.  
> Author's notes: I almost certainly haven’t done justice to Sherlock’s mind but after the last episode my whole mind sort of exploded. Being patient while waiting for the real explanation isn’t my sort of thing.

Sherlock figured he’d managed to run through every possible way that this scenario could go. He’d mentally – and in case of certain outcomes, physically – prepared himself for each one of those scenarios. However, if he’d been a betting man, which he _clearly_ wasn’t, the two most likely ways it would go was either that he’d be punched or that John would be overly emotional and go for a full on ManHug. Yet it turned out upon occasion he could be wrong. Sherlock refused to fidget in his chair as the lab door swung open. John mumbled a confused “Molly?” over his shoulder, and then stopped as he got a good look in the dimly lit room. Sherlock stood slowly, the room’s air-conditioning ruffling his hair and filled the room with a buzz that somehow only increased the level of uncomfortable in the silence between the two of them, which was bad enough that Sherlock himself was picking up on it. He kept his gaze fixed on John whose expression was very reminiscent of the first time they’d met in this very room. It was his captain’s face; it meant he was about to pull rank.

“John, I…” And that was when it happened. The one thing Sherlock hadn’t anticipated happened. John Watson sharply turned and faintly limped away. The heavy fire door didn’t give the appropriate slam shut that the moment really called for. Rather it swung sharply, air whistling, and then it slowed. It shut with a gentle click that Sherlock felt in his bones. He kept himself still, cool air flowing over him as he tried to hold on to his certainty that any moment now John would appear in the doorway once more. Then it occurred to him that this was all too resonant of that encounter in the graveyard during the Baskerville case. _What had he…?_

“Ah, pursuit!” Sherlock quickly strode to the door. He was frustrated with himself when what could only be perceived as nerves made him fumble with the handle. It took a moment and then Sherlock’s strides were eating up the hallway, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and it barely took any time at all for him to get within earshot of John.

“John! For goodness sake, don’t you think silence and running away is more than a little juvenile? John.” As far as he could tell John didn’t even so much as blink when he spoke. He just kept up that sad, slow walk that had cut Sherlock deeply a year ago when he’d first seen its reappearance.

Sherlock stopped and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, a strange clawing feeling at the lowest part of his gut. “John, please, I need your help.”

That certainly garnered a reaction. John stopped abruptly in the centre of the hallway, hands ominously clenched at his sides, head held tall and back as unrelenting as a brick wall.

“You need my help?” There was a sharp bark to John’s voice that sounded somewhat hysterical. “You _need_ my help?

“Has your hearing diminished in the past-“

John turned and Sherlock found himself wishing that he hadn’t. That was a truly ugly expression. “No, this is my time to talk right now because you have had over a fucking year to talk, write, text, email, send up smoke signals or use any other form of communication that you bloody well know about. But, no, you didn’t and I thought you didn’t do any of those things because I believed you were dead. For over a whole year! We had a funeral and everything!”

“I know,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s face turned even more thunderous, and Sherlock strongly had to resist the urge to step back inwardly cursing his irrepressible need to have the last word and he remembered all too well what a skilled marksman John was. “You know? Do I even want to know _how_ you know? No, because I would get even more pissed at you than I already am about the fact that you made Mrs Hudson cry over you. And now you show up here, with no warning, saying that you _need_ me. Well here’s my answer: You’re dead to me. Quite literally, and I will go yell at your headstone taking back all of the nice things I ever said about bloody well believing in you.” John quite clearly swallowed as he said that, his voice rising in pitch as he neared the end of his speech, and Sherlock noted with interest that as of yet the man hadn’t been able to look him in the eye.

Silence fell again as a heavy tangible thing and Sherlock couldn’t find the right way to reply to John’s anger. A flicker of disappointment began to merge with his fury and it was with a slow, almost defeated, shake of his head that once more John began to turn from Sherlock.

Desperately, he blurted out, “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

And with that one simple sentence Sherlock know that he’d caught John’s attention for at least the minimum amount of time it took for him to explain. That would give him at least twenty minutes to work with. It would be double if he could convince John to partake in a hot beverage. “Why don’t we go back to the lab and have a cup of tea? I am guessing that you could use a drink.”

“I could use a double scotch but until I can get some, caffeine will do.” The faint feeling of hope that Sherlock had briefly indulged in as John started heading towards him, but it was quickly quashed when the man stopped right next to him jaw fixedly clenched. “Sherlock, just because I’m sticking around to listen so I can finally put this behind me doesn’t mean I’m staying. Your problems stopped being mine a long time ago.”

 _And that cut._ Sherlock felt it in a way that only emotions surrounding John could get to him. It had always surprised him just how much he actually _cared_ about what John had to say, it had been such a rare sensation throughout his life but it served to remind him that he was actually alive and not just an automaton sent to Earth to serve as a higher intelligence.

He licked his lips and his hands twitched in his pockets as he repressed the urge to turn up his collar against the oncoming air conditioner chill but the distant memory of John saying: “Don’t do that!” was enough to stop him. Sherlock somehow didn’t think that reminding John of the Baskerville argument was the wisest course of action right now. Friendship was the furthest thing from what they currently were and it presented more of a knowing emptiness than Sherlock had calculated. Though, in his defence, the conjoined areas of emotions and friendship weren’t exactly his expertise.

Once they reached the lab it was an awkward moment where the air was once more filled with a dull buzz before John let out an irritated sigh – Sherlock had to briefly close his eyes against the aching familiarity of the noise – and flipped on the harsh lights. John then limped his way over to where the kettle was standing.

“Oh, I would’ve done that.” Sherlock brought his hands out of his pockets in an aborted movement of help that became him linking them together for a lack of anything better to do.

There was a disbelieving scoff as John twisted the cold tap on to fill the kettle. “Sure, though as I recall you only make me a drink when you’re being apologetic so that you can try to drug me.”

Yes, it was defiantly still awkward in here. Sherlock pursed his lips. “No drugs on me, I promise you. Feel free to conduct a body search if you believe that would put you at ease.”

In that instant there was a muscle that twitched in John’s cheek that could only mean he was repressing a smile. “I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you.”

“Very well,” Sherlock looked round the room and then headed to the chair that he’d originally been sitting in, “if there is anything I can do be sure to let me know.”

John turned after putting the kettle on and leant against the counter with his arms folded. “Actually, there is.”

“Oh?”

“You could start the explanation I was promised.”

“Ah,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “I thought that was waiting until we had the welcome barrier of tea to soften the discussion, but since you ask I am more than willing to start now. What have you already deduced about the situation?”

“Other than you’re a bastard? Nothing.”

“Well I admit I hadn’t anticipated that.”

“Sherlock…” John rubbed a hand over his face, “just get on with it.”

“As I am sure you are aware Molly has been involved previously in the endeavour of falsifying a death—“

“Yeah, going to have to talk to her.”

“—and so when I began to understand Moriarty’s ultimate goal she was my first port of call. Unusual I know and yet I comprehended that she was indeed the most qualified person for what I needed.”

John began to pour the water into two mugs as the power of the kettle clicked off. “That I get. But you’re forgetting I was _there_ , Sherlock, I watched you jump. I heard the noise… saw the blood… I want to throw up just thinking about it.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Indeed, you were and, as you recall, I did ask you not to take your eyes off me. I positioned you quite carefully.”

“So? I know what I saw Sherlock. You jumped and when I got to you your head was smashed in.” John moved closer and slammed a mug down in front of Sherlock, his knuckles white. “I don’t understand what point you’re trying to make.”

“Are you sure you didn’t look away?” Sherlock leant forward intensely. “It is of the utmost importance that you _think_ , John.”

Sherlock’s skin prickled as he watched John sit down on the chair opposite him and he could almost see the cogs moving. Eyes closing; indicative of shutting the mind down from outside stimulus to accurately remember the events. Loosening of the jaw muscles; recalling the words spoken. Twitching fingers; directions of movements. Twitch of the eyebrows; an event he’d forgotten.

“There was a cyclist,” John said slowly as he looked Sherlock in the eyes for the first time during this encounter, “I got knocked over.”

“Then it is entirely possible that you missed the vital component of my leap.” Sherlock nodded to himself. “And, gives a viable explanation for your overt testiness to my presence here tonight.”

“My overt testiness?” snapped John. “I don’t care what stunt you were pulling or what you expected me to figure out, I have every right to be as angry as I like.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock made his tone carefully placating, “I was merely observing that without all of the facts you were quite _understandably_ angrier than I had originally anticipated. Indeed, it is quite beyond me why, as of yet, you have refrained from punching me. From my knowledge of you an outburst of violence would make you feel infinitely better.”

“Maybe I’ve decided you’re not worth the bruised knuckles.” John raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea. “After all, you’ve already caused me plenty of pain.”

 _Well wasn’t that pointed?_ Sherlock cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the table. “Honestly, John, one thing we both know for certain is that there is a level of caring between us that no amount of time or trickery can dispel.” There was a sharp moment where frustration radiated off of John as he clearly wanted to deny the claim but couldn’t. Sherlock leant forward. “I jumped, that much is true. My stomach tried its best to escape, an intense level of nausea that I’d never experienced previously. All I would have had to do was miscalculate the slightest of details and I would truly be buried beneath that tombstone. There is the smallest of ledges, just an overly large windowsill really, that I aimed for. The instant that I hit it, cracking a couple of ribs, Molly was there with her fake cadaver that she’d spent the night working on. As I landed at a truly awkward angle she rolled the body over mine and sent it crashing down the rest of the way. I was…” Sherlock’s voice cracked slightly and he coughed to try and cover it, “I was hoping that you’d have seen the slight distortion in my movement but… it seems that was not meant to be.”

John frowned, “I’m going to ask you a question and when you answer I want you to look me in the eye.”

“Very well.”

“Did you really expect me to figure out that you weren’t dead?”

Very seriously Sherlock nodded slowly and held out his arm, his bare wrist peeking out from the cuff of his white shirt, skin almost the same colour as the cloth, facing upwards. “Truly, I did. Feel free to take my pulse if you wish to ascertain whether or not I am lying, through an elevated pulse level.”

There was a moment of hesitation and then John reached out with two fingers and laid them directly above Sherlock’s pulse point. It was tense and Sherlock was careful to keep his breathing even so as not to skew the results. His skin prickled from the direct contact with John; it’d been so long since he’d had physical contact with another human. Before John had come into his life he would never have missed such a thing, then there had been a spate of meaningless touches throughout their friendship – a hand on the back, a pat on the shoulder – and then once they were gone Sherlock found himself actively craving contact. He was brought back to the then and there by a soft tap on his wrist; then John was leaning back into his chair with a faintly poleaxed expression.

“Sherlock, I… I don’t have a clue what to say. I’m still pretty pissed that you continued to let me believe you were dead. You don’t know how I… how it _affected_ me.” John’s eyes were now suspiciously shiny and Sherlock would be eternally grateful that the man was keeping it together. “But it does make a bit of a difference that you at least tried.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock frowned and then uncomfortably shifted before awkwardly saying, “I _am_ sorry.”

At that John let out a bark of laughter. “You have no idea how ridiculous those words sound coming from your mouth, of all people.”

It was a fair point and Sherlock didn’t think anything he could say on that subject would be of any use, but there was something he felt that he had to say. He dropped his gaze to peer down at the mug of tea that he had yet to touch. “I feel that I ought to… well… tell you that…” he cleared his throat, “you should know that it meant a lot to me that you never stopped believing in me.”

“Oh,” John’s breath was sharply drawn in and when he spoke again there was an exasperated fondness to the tone, “I said it before; no-one is that much of an irritating dick all of the time. I would’ve seen through it if you were lying, you’re a pretty crap actor.”

“I have fooled many!”

“Yeah, but they didn’t know you.” John laughed. “Sherlock, stop staring down at your tea like a child expecting to be scolded, being humble doesn’t suit you. And, quite frankly, it’s creeping me out. If you’re not going to drink that I could do with it.”

The mug was snatched out from Sherlock’s line of sight. “I may have been about to drink that.” Even to his own ears he sounded petulant.

“You snooze you lose. I have a year’s worth of stress and worry to take out on you. Now will you look at me? Please?”

Trying to stall Sherlock linked his fingers and fiddled with his thumbs before finally raising his eyes; flitting them around the room in a seemingly random pattern before he landed on John. “Now what?”

The response he got was a fist to the jaw. The harsh sound of flesh meeting flesh ringing around the room and Sherlock’s world tilted off axis briefly, though he took some small comfort in that he’d turned out to be correct after all. Odd, there must have been a level of affection warranted to provoke John enough to care to hit him. He cradled his jaw and glared accusingly at John. “I said I was sorry!”

“And now I can say that I forgive you. You’ve got to admit, you deserved that.” John was shaking out his hand with a wide grin on his face. “Oh, and you were right, I _do_ feel better for it.”

“I shall grant you that.”

“So why now?” John took a sip of his stolen tea and made a face, “Ergh, its gone cold.” He limped across the room towards the microwave but Sherlock was interested to note that the difference in his gait was not quite as severe as it had been at the start of their conversation. It brought to mind many possible and interesting theories about how a mental state could make such a difference in someone’s physical state in such a small period of time.

“Why now, what?”

“Why choose to come back to life now? You said you needed me.”

 _Ah, that._ “He’s not dead.” Sherlock said bluntly, a chill coming over him from even saying it. There would’ve been a time that such a trivial thing as fear would not have caused such a reaction within him, yet this past year had made him learn the use of such emotions. They served as the warning that he have previously not cared about and then replaced John’s careful voice in his head.

“Are you talking about yourself in the third person now? I’ve pretty much established that you’re alive…” John froze in the act of pressing buttons, “I’m being thick, aren’t I? It’s Moriarty.”

“I don’t know how he did it. I don’t know how he found me.” Anger at being duped began to curl in Sherlock’s stomach now that he was in a position where he could allow such feelings. “But what I do know is that to lure me out the first thing he will do is come for you. I could not, _cannot_ , allow that to happen.”

Sherlock clenched his teeth together. The problem was that he’d barely been able to protect John the first _two_ times he’d tangled with this foe; he couldn’t see any way that it would be easier this time. Moriarty’s duplicity and web of criminal network would only have had time to grow in the year that he’d been running.

There was a gentle hand placed on his elbow and Sherlock looked across sharply to see John’s kind eyes staring back at him. “This time we will beat him,” he said fiercely, “and this time he _can’t_ have you.”

 _I know the feeling._ Sherlock trembled ever so slightly against the tide of emotions that was battering at him, then twisted and pulled John closer into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the stable frame. Warmth encompassed him and he shut his eyes, burying his face into the crook of John’s neck. “This never happened,” he whispered.

“Of course not,” John replied quietly while rubbing a comforting hand along the curve of Sherlock’s spine while he shook, “I won’t even think it.”


End file.
